


dirty picture

by dreamcatchme



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Grantaire is a Mess, M/M, There may be angst, but also sex, but so is enjolras a little bit, photographer!grantaire, so dont worry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2017-12-14 17:03:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamcatchme/pseuds/dreamcatchme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is a first-year photography student in search of a muse. Enjolras is a third-year political science student in search of extra credit. So they come to an arrangement, and there is no fucking way that Grantaire is drunk enough to deal with this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Change

**Author's Note:**

> Bear with me here.

Grantaire has been at university for the grand total of three weeks before he’s summoned to his tutor’s office with the evil eye and a stern bark from the front of the lecture hall – the glare he’s given contains a number of things, namely silent threats and invisible daggers freshly sharpened over the summer, and for once in his life he doesn’t feel up to arguing. Grantaire likes to maintain tradition so in keeping with that principle he rocks up fifteen minutes after the proposed meeting time.

 

“Grantaire,” says old Professor What’s-Her-Name by way of a greeting from behind her desk, reaching up and clipping short mousey hair out of her eyes. “As punctual as ever.”

 

“You know me,” he tries with a wink, hopeful because she’s female and he’s Grantaire and those have always been a winning combination in the past, but the look she gives him screams that maybe university is actually nothing like high school and what worked then won’t work now in any shape or form. “Professor,” he adds sheepishly, directing his gaze to the patina of the wooden desk.

 

She sighs. “You started your photography course three weeks ago, and I’m concerned that you’ve still got nothing to show for it. Grantaire, please take this seriously. I know you can do better than this.”

 

Grantaire tugs his hand through his errant curls and leans forward, imploring but hoping to hold on to his characteristic air of nonchalance because _really_ , if he’s honest with himself which he so rarely is, Grantaire knows she’s right. Since the moment he hopped off the bus with his suitcase and stepped across the threshold into the halls of residence, his photography major had literally become the last thing on his mind, the social aspects of university life immediately fighting (against little resistance, to be fair) their way to the forefront. Admittedly he’d been nervous at first, until a tiny brunette fireball had rapped ferociously on his door after an hour or so, immediately introduced herself as Eponine and become one of the greatest people Grantaire has ever known over their fifth round of shots down in the student union bar. Through increasing stages of intoxication, he’d learnt Eponine had an August birthday, making Grantaire almost an entire year older than her, that she was majoring in psychology and that she, just like Grantaire, was not on the best of terms with her parents – they were neglectful and had abandoned her in spirit, so Eponine had taken the executive decision to throw herself out at the age of sixteen before they had the chance. Grantaire found solace and a warmth in Eponine that he hadn’t had for as long as he could remember. His old mates from sixth form had been flighty and placeholders at best, but in Eponine he’d seen someone who could be a friend for life from the very start. She’s witty and crude with a manner that just screams loyalty, and she can drink Grantaire under the table like nobody else can, a trait he’s always had the decency to admire.

 

“It’s just...” Grantaire searches desperately for an excuse, then settles on the one he’s used for years that makes him sound at least somewhat interested in his studies. “I haven’t been inspired yet, Professor...”

 

“Well, if I were you, I’d find a way to _get_ inspired, and quickly,” she retorts, a sarcastic ghost of a smile on her face. “You’re already overdue with picking a title for your portfolio, and the first hand-in deadline is this Friday.” She thumbs through a wad of papers on her desk and hands and hands an official-looking document over to him, complete with exam board logos and terrifyingly long paragraphs of instructions for candidates. He remembers the gaudy orange paper and knows he’s been given this sheet at least once before, so God only knows what he did with his original copy. “Here are your options for portfolio titles. You’ve got six to choose from. I’d take this away, have a look and see what jumps out at you, then tomorrow, set to work on finding a concept or a model or a muse or _anything_ , Grantaire, because frankly anything would be fabulous at this point.”

 

University is becoming a problem for Grantaire.

 

He’s in the process of folding the document in half without looking at it once when there’s a light tap on the door and he hears somebody that sounds distinctly male clear their throat out in the hallway.

 

“Come in,” calls Professor What’s-Her-Name, then the door opens and the person bearing the closest resemblance to some kind of living, breathing Greek god that Grantaire has ever seen steps into the office.

 

His face is somehow angular but soft and glowing all at once, the harsh fluorescent lighting dancing off his high cheekbones in a way that would be unflattering in the case of anyone but him. Dirty blonde curls frame his face, unruly like Grantaire’s but he seems to carry it with a grace Grantaire could never achieve, and as he steps closer to the desk Grantaire has to make a conscious effort to shut his jaw, which seems to have fallen slack – the boy, perhaps half an inch shorter than Grantaire, is wearing a red hoodie over a white button-up, loose at his throat and drawing attention to the peaches-and-cream skin there that moves with every breath, and a pair of jeans so tight that Grantaire absolutely _knows_ they must defy some sort of indecency law. He smiles and Grantaire swallows hard because _oh my fucking Christ on a bike_ , he suddenly has to fold his hands in his lap in a half-assed attempt to cover his growing hard-on. How old is he, thirteen? He stares down at the boy’s red Converse high tops.

 

“Enjolras,” Professor What’s-Her-Name greets him, considerably more warmly than she greeted Grantaire earlier, and he smiles and for a second Grantaire genuinely thinks he might start hyperventilating.

 

“Professor Marsh.”

 

Marsh. That’s the one. In hindsight Grantaire is sure he knew that – her eyes are a particularly boggy shade of brown.

 

The boy, Enjolras, smiles an easy smile, seems to notice Grantaire’s presence and nods politely in his direction, his features melting from hard to soft in an instant – the light highlights his flawless, godlike bone structure and all of a sudden the earth shifts on its axis, gravity moves and all Grantaire wants to do, _needs to do_ , is replicate the effect with the flash on his camera. Grantaire manages to smile back, and from then on he can’t take his eyes off of Enjolras.

 

“How’s your search for students to tutor going?” asks Professor Marsh, Grantaire forgotten, apparently.

 

“That’s actually what I came to talk to you about,” he tells her, biting his lip. Grantaire has to look away because _oh my God_ , he has never been so jealous of a set of teeth in his entire life. “No luck whatsoever. I guess where it’s only the start of the semester everyone’s feeling pretty confident right now. I know I could always just wait, but I think maybe it’ll be easier if I start exploring another avenue to get this extra credit.” Grantaire remembers then what Professor Marsh told the students on their first day at the university, that she is also head of pastoral care and can be contacted for a whole host of matters, including issues regarding those two dirty words that taste sharp and bitter in Grantaire’s mouth – extra credit. Grantaire isn’t interested in putting in the work for a better grade – he knows that at the end of the day he’ll be happy if he escapes university with a second rate degree and a liver that continues to function normally. Enjolras looks intense and eager and intelligent, though, and Grantaire knows there is something special about him. He’s all bright eyes and curls and cheekbones, with an expression that shifts in seconds from dazzlingly warm to pensive, and it takes Grantaire all of 0.004893 seconds to realise that this beautiful, brilliant boy is his inner photographer’s wet dream.

 

Grantaire lurches around in his seat, feeling a blush rise in his cheeks at his lack of elegance, and blurts out, with a suaveness that he has spent years mastering, “Lemephotographyplease.”

 

Professor Marsh and Enjolras both look down at him, the former’s eyebrows shooting up to the ceiling, the latter’s face softening to an expression of confused curiosity. “Excuse me?” he asks, a note of amusement in his tone, and his voice is like a pealing of bells in Grantaire’s ears.

 

Knowing he’s trapped now with no means of escape or backpedalling, Grantaire sighs and climbs to his feet, where he looks up at Enjolras, tries as hard as he can to smile without screaming or staring or kissing him and holds out his hand. “Hi, I’m Grantaire, and... I was wondering if I could photograph you.”

 

Enjolras stares at him in a way that reminds Grantaire of how a parent might if their child yelled a swear word in a busy street, then slowly reaches out to shake Grantaire’s hand. His skin is soft and his pulse thrums against Grantaire’s thumb. And that’s when Grantaire realises what he just said.

 

“Oh my God. No. God, no. I’m a photography major. I was wondering if I could photograph you _for a fucking photography project_. Nothing creepy. Promise,” he gushes, stumbling over his words, and to his immense relief Enjolras only smiles.

 

“Oh,” says Enjolras, weighing the word on his tongue. He has these eyes that are attentive and relentless, like he can read the tiny, slightly blurred words written in the folds of Grantaire’s soul and they make up the most fascinating novel in the universe. Suddenly Grantaire hates himself. Why did he think that this was a good idea? Grantaire looks down. Enjolras’ hand is still holding onto his own. Embarrassed, Grantaire drops his hand back to his side, and now he can’t look Enjolras in the eye because _he fucked up_ , he’s made a total dick of himself and he’s fucked up everything as always. Did he really expect anything more?

 

“Sorry,” he mutters, survival instincts kicking in. “Too weird. Forget I said anything.” Pulling his bag onto his shoulder, Grantaire stares at the floor tiles as he goes to leave the room, to run away from obligations and responsibilities as he always does. But then he feels a hand on his wrist, fingers curling around his bare skin where the cuff of his shirt has ridden up in his haste, and he looks back into those grey-brown eyes that are just as impossibly, unthinkably deep as the ocean under a cloudy sky. They’re soft, and Enjolras is smiling at him before glancing down at Professor Marsh, who seems to have been stunned into stony silence.

 

“Will I be eligible for the extra credit if I help... Grantaire – ” He looks back to Grantaire for confirmation that he got the correct pronunciation, and Grantaire just nods, his mouth gaping like a goldfish. “ – out with his photography project?”

 

“Um.” Professor Marsh stares at the boys in front of her desk, her brow furrowed, then drags her eyes away to scan a page she extricated from her filing cabinet upon Enjolras’ arrival. A second later, she smiles up at him. “That would be fine, yes. If... if both of you are happy to work together.”

 

Enjolras releases Grantaire’s wrist in such a way that Grantaire is pulled back into the office and away from the door. When he turns, Enjolras is holding out his own hand this time. “Enjolras,” he clarifies with a smile, eyes burning with something that Grantaire likes to think could be curiosity, and Grantaire shakes it.

 

“Grantaire,” Grantaire tells him again, feeling a smile threaten the corners of his own lips.

 

“I know,” says Enjolras, cocking his head and _oh my Jesus Christ on a bike_ he is the most adorable thing that Grantaire has ever had the pleasure to lay eyes on.

 

They sit back down and, with the guidance of Professor Marsh, arrange a time to plan and work on Grantaire’s project that fits with both of their schedules. Enjolras’ university timetable doesn’t seem as full as Grantaire’s, so he wonders whether or not Enjolras might be older than him and _definitely_ isn’t turned on by that possibility, _no way_. Grantaire crosses his legs again because he has seriously never been this hard in his life, and at the age of eighteen is over so slightly ashamed of himself, lusting after some undergrad he’s never met before. While they talk he finds himself staring at Enjolras, who’s hoodie zip has ridden low, revealing a strip of skin at his neck that disappears tauntingly beneath his shirt and _shit_ , Grantaire wants nothing more than to pull it right off him, throw it to the floor and ravish that neck with his lips and tongue, tug his hands through those blonde curls and fuck Enjolras into that chair he’s sitting on. So Grantaire sits on his hands, bites his lip and waits for the meeting to end.

 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” he says as he and Enjolras part outside the office fifteen minutes later. “Where shall I meet you?” he asks quickly, remembering he’d neglected that detail earlier.

 

“Where do you want me?” asks Enjolras, and Grantaire swears he sees colour bloom on his cheeks. And holy shit, Grantaire can think of a million answers to his question, and none of them are anywhere near appropriate for the location of a photography project.

 

“The studio, upstairs... if that’s alright with you,” Grantaire manages, sweat beading at the nape of his neck. What is he, a simpering fucking girl? “It’ll probably just be headshots before we get into the serious stuff.”

 

“Serious stuff,” Enjolras repeats teasingly, scrunching his face up and bringing his face close to Grantaire’s and Grantaire holds his breath subconsciously, afraid of the hormonal responses that might – would – be triggered by inhaling the other boy’s scent. He looks so cute in that second that Grantaire laughs, then  Enjolras laughs, then both of them are just grinning at each other.

 

When they’ve said goodbye, Grantaire bolts across the Quad, past the coffee shop, through the main doors to the halls of residence then up the stairs to his room, where he kicks off his shoes, pushes open the window because he’s never been so hot in his entire life and lies back on his bed. In seconds he’s got his jeans unfastened, then his hand is down his pants and minutes later, short, blissful minutes later, he’s coming in thick ropes across his stomach with sweat on his forehead and the name of a certain enigmatic blonde on his lips. He pants, trying to regain his breathing and wondering when he became a slave to his hormones, then cleans himself up before unpacking the shit in his bag and glancing for the first time at the project sheet Professor Marsh gave him. He scans the options for his first year’s photography project, his vision hazy in the gradually darkening room; they all bleat on about _self image_ and _catastrophes_ and Grantaire has never felt less inspired. Enjolras deserves better than these titles. Then Grantaire sees the last option on the list and smiles.

_Change_.

 

Something definitely changed for Grantaire today. Change is good. Change means _improvement_. And Enjolras might be just the kind of change that Grantaire needs.


	2. Headshots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Grantaire is late and very, very sorry. Enjolras doesn't mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this has taken me so ridiculously long to update! But I promised I would, and now that I'm done with school/work etc, updates should be much quicker. Thank you for sticking with me!
> 
> (I have no clue what I'm doing)
> 
> (Please review me, I'll adore you for it)

It’s 9:30am the following morning, and Enjolras frowns into the hallway mirror as he attempts to tame the blonde curls, the appearance of which that, for once in his godforsaken life, he actually kind of cares about. Usually he’s pretty casual about his image – when he’s balls-deep in dissertation research and reading material and group presentation inquiries, as seems to be the case twenty four-seven at the moment, Enjolras tends to lean toward the roll-out-of-bed-and-go lifestyle. Today, however, he made sure he was up and conscious a solid hour before he was due to leave the house and even then still had no clue what to wear. He wonders what it is about the dark and brooding budding photographer that has his usually cool and collected demeanour trembling. _Grantaire_. He bites his lip to prevent himself from smiling. Seriously, what’s with the parents of students at this university and their obsession with pretentious French names for their poor, defenceless children?

 

He sighs as he pulls on his black Vans, then winces as a loud metallic clang from the next room bombards his eardrums. _What the fuck?_ He clambers to his feet and makes his way into the kitchen, where he finds Marius, house mate and best friend number one, staring wide-eyed at the contents of the corner cupboard which are now littering the white linoleum. Streaks of flour cover his freckled cheeks, and his short curls are sticking up at odd angles as though he’s been electrocuted. However, regardless of this, Marius is smiling at Enjolras as he walks in.

 

“Good morning, sunshine,” he practically sings, crouching down to start collecting up the pots and pans strewn across the floor, and Enjolras raises his eyebrows at him.

 

“Erm, what are you doing?” he asks as Marius begins handing him items to put back into the cupboard. Enjolras complies, his interest piqued by Marius’ behaviour.

 

“Pancakes,” says Marius, gesturing to the gigantic mixing bowl on the worktop. “I’m making pancakes. Or attempting to, at least.”

 

“Since when do you…” Enjolras starts, but then he hears footsteps on the stairs and his brow furrows once more. Combeferre had an 8am lecture. Plus, it still hasn’t hit 10am, so there’s no way on God’s green earth that Jehan or Courf are out of bed on the day that neither of them have class. So who could it be?  What parallel universe has he stepped into? And is it Enjolras’ imagination, or is Marius suddenly blushing?

 

Everything becomes hideously clear a moment later when a voice, soft like the coo of a dove, sounds from the doorway and both boys look up. “Marius, what’s all the – oh.” She notices Enjolras, who manages a half smile at her, and laughs awkwardly. “I’m sorry. I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Cosette,” she introduces herself, nodding at Enjolras with a warm, sincere smile.

 

Cosette is slight and willowy, with tumbling golden hair and pretty, pixie-like features. She’s wearing nothing but her underwear with one of Marius’ shirts draped around her shoulders, overlong sleeves bypassing her fingertips by quite a way, but to Enjolras’ relief she doesn’t seem the least bit embarrassed. He notices a large, vividly coloured tattoo of a caged bird on her thigh, and for some reason it seems at odds with the rest of her appearance.

 

“Enjolras,” he replies, returning her smile. There’s an awkward moment of silence. “Marius is making pancakes,” Enjolras informs Cosette lightly, mainly by way of making conversation.

 

“Oh, thank god,” Cosette laughs, making her way across the kitchen floor on tiptoe and, to Enjolras’ immense and overwhelming surprise, wrapping her arms around Marius’ waist and lacing her fingers together across his stomach. “Good morning,” she says in his ear, and he grins and turns to kiss her gently. Enjolras takes this as his cue to leave, so he grabs his rucksack from the kitchen table, turns on his heel and heads out of the front door without another word.

 

Twenty minutes later, he’s sipping a hazelnut latte from a polystyrene cup and walking up the winding staircase to the upstairs photography studio. The arts building is huge and wooden and angular and impressive, with entire walls made of glass and sculptures embedded into the architecture at every turn like something from an episode of _Grand Designs_ , and Enjolras stares around in awe. _Only slightly different from Poli-Sci, then_ , he thinks to himself, envisaging the wobbling desks and peeling wallpaper of the lecture theatres he’s grown used to these past two years and feeling a slight pang of jealousy. The studio seems to be deserted, and Enjolras glances down at the LED screen of his iPhone – he’s five minutes early, so he pulls a stool out from under one of the desks and sits down to wait for Grantaire.

 

Forty-five minutes pass, then suddenly Enjolras hears thunderous footsteps on the glass stairs, heavy breathing and multiple frustrated groans of “Shit, shit, shit.” Then a bedraggled Grantaire springs through the double doors to the studio, camera bag slung haphazardly over his shoulder, coffee cup clasped between his hands. Enjolras looks up, and has to swallow hard because _damn_ , Grantaire is carrying off a look more suitable for the window of an Urban Outfitters than for the university photography studio that they’re standing in currently. His jean shorts are frayed and acid-washed and totally at odds yet simultaneously in harmony with his white dress shirt, rolled up at the sleeves and a quarter unbuttoned, revealing his sharp collarbones and the stubble at his neck left from forgetting to shave for a few nights in a row. His dark hair is in a state of disarray that Enjolras can just tell is a trademark of the photographer, and his blue eyes are wide and deeply, genuinely remorseful.

 

“Oh my goooooooooood, Enjolras I am so fucking sorry I’m so late,” Grantaire rants, his breathing still coming fast and shallow. He stretches his arms above his head like a tracker runner recovering from a sprint.

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Enjolras tells him with a small smile, slightly amused by his gasping, husky apology, but Grantaire isn’t finished yet.

 

“It’s just I overslept – that’s something you should know about me, I couldn’t wake up with an alarm if my life depended on it – and it didn’t help that I was up till god knows when last night worrying about today, and then I tried to be here as fast as I could but then the bus was late and literally _nothing_ seemed to be –”

 

“Grantaire.” Enjolras places a hand on his arm. “Seriously, don’t worry about it,” he laughs in what he hopes is a reassuring way. “I don’t have lectures today. There was no rush.”

 

Grantaire visibly seems to relax, his shoulders slumping, and he places his coffee down on the bench next to Enjolras’. “I’m still sorry,” he says defiantly, grimacing. “I owe you one.”

 

“I’m sure we can figure something out,” Enjolras tells him, feeling himself smile once more, and he finds he can’t take his eyes off of the boy in front of him, tall, lithe body leaning over the wooden bench. Grantaire runs a hand through his unruly curls and exhales long and hard, the skin over his cheekbones still glowing slightly red. “Sure you’re okay?” Enjolras asks slightly sarcastically, leaning forward in his seat.

 

Grantaire laughs once. “Just about, now that I can breathe again.” He grins, then cocks his head in a way that somehow convinces Enjolras that he’s actually sincere in what he’s saying. They’ve only met twice, but Enjolras finds that he likes this quality _a lot_.  “How about you?”

 

He’s always been a decent judge of character, and he can tell that Grantaire is an honest guy, so Enjolras decides in that moment to be honest with him in return whenever and wherever he can. “I’m actually kind of nervous,” he says, and Grantaire raises his eyebrows.

 

“Nervous about what?” he asks. “Not this, surely.”

 

“I’ve never done anything like this in my life, Grantaire,” he tells him, his eyes wide, and he feels a prickle of electricity shoot down his spine as Grantaire gazes across the benchat him that he is 99.99999% sure is just a nervous reaction. _Right?_ “I’m probably a lousy model,” he says, shrugging.

 

“Something makes me doubt that,” says Grantaire, and he can’t explain why but his tone of voice tells Enjolras that _you can do it, I believe in you_. “Like I said, just headshots. Nothing serious.” And then he winks, and Enjolras looks down and pretends to be checking his phone to conceal the blush he can feel spreading across his cheeks. Grantaire removes his camera from the bag and begins fitting it with various different plastic parts and lenses and Enjolras, for once in his life, has nothing of any use to contribute. So he sits quietly, watching Grantaire’s skilled hands, his long, elegant fingers, as they assemble the piece of equipment that Grantaire has decided to dedicate his life and every waking moment to mastering. When he’s done, he flicks his head up, holds the camera lens to his eye and snaps a few test shots of the wall. “Fuck, I should have thought about this. The light at this time of day is terrible. Hmm...”

 

Enjolras watches as the photographer moves around the table – he catches sight of a wide, rectangular metal frame mounted on a set of wheels and pulls it toward the half of the studio that isn’t bathed in direct sunlight. His eyes widen as inspiration clearly strikes, and he grabs a large white fabric sheet, previously used as, Enjolras can only assume, a backdrop for mounting the work of former students. He throws the sheet over the metal rectangle, then stands back and admires his handiwork. “I’ll have to use a strong flash, but this should work,” he muses aloud, more for his own benefit than Enjolras’, Enjolras guesses, then looks back at him with a smile. “You’re up, Apollo.”

 

Enjolras takes a sip of his coffee and gets to his feet, then his eyebrows pull together as he realises what Grantaire just said. “What did you call me?”

 

“Oh.” Grantaire hesitates. “I kind of didn’t mean to say that out loud. Apollo. You know, the Greek god of something or other? I spent two years of sixth form painting him, and for a second then you made me think back to it. I think it must be the hair.” Enjolras knows his baffled face must be a picture right now. “He was a blonde too,” Grantaire adds with a tiny smirk. “I’m sorry. I’ll stop embarrassing myself in front of you some time soon, I promise.”

 

“No,” Enjolras responds _far too fucking quickly_ , and he hides his face by turning his back on Grantaire as he walks to stand in front of the white backdrop. “You’re not embarrassing yourself. I mean… you haven’t seen what I’m about to do.” Grantaire laughs at this, and Enjolras suddenly can’t help but laugh back. It feels easy and normal, like breathing, then before Enjolras has time to realise what’s happening Grantaire holds up the camera and snaps a photograph of him, the flash dazzling his eyes for a second and a half. Enjolras gasps. “I was laughing!” he protests, but Grantaire just smiles.

 

“So what? I needed one of you smiling.” He looks down at the little LED screen on the camera, then he bites his lip in this charming yet somehow suggestive way that for some unexplainable reason means that Enjolras can’t look away from him. “I told you not to be nervous,” says Grantaire, smiling at the camera. Enjolras catches him swallowing hard. “You’re a natural.”

 

“Can I see?” Enjolras asks, stepping forward, but Grantaire takes a step back like a magnet met by an opposing force.

 

“No way. No one gets to see these until they’re properly edited.”

 

“Wow, that bad?” Enjolras teases with a smile, then suddenly Grantaire’s camera is flashing and once again Enjolras is temporarily blinded. “Shit,” he mutters, closing his eyes. He hears the click of the camera again, senses the flash.

 

“Are you sure you’ve never done this before?” he hears Grantaire ask. “Not even for, like, the Gap Kids catalogue or something?”

 

He opens his eyes, and Grantaire is still smiling a knowing, inspired smile, a smile that says _I have big plans for this and for you_. “Pretty sure,” Enjolras assures him, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Why?” he asks, smirking. “Am I model material, oh great _artiste_?”

 

Grantaire steps toward Enjolras, closing the majority of the wide gap between them, and lowers his camera. “I think I’ll be able to work with this,” he says, smile back in place. Then to Enjolras’ surprise, Grantaire raises his handed and tilts Enjolras’ chin upwards and slightly to one side with the very tips of his fingers, his touch feather light, almost non-existent but still somehow able to set his pulse racing like the wings of a butterfly trapped under a net, unable to pull free. “Sorry,” says Grantaire. “There. That angle’s good.”

 

He steps back and Enjolras stares at the far wall of the studio as Grantaire’s camera clicks a few more times, then Grantaire asks him to turn his head to the other side. Enjolras complies willingly, closing his eyes for a moment in the hope of regaining his composure before resuming his neutral expression for Grantaire. Several clicks later, Grantaire grins and places his camera down on the bench closest to him.

 

Enjolras is surprised. “Is that it?”

 

“For now,” says Grantaire, his smile concealing a thousand plans and secrets, and Enjolras realises he’s never been so intrigued by somebody after such a short time in their presence. “Hey, could you pass my coffee?” He gestures just pass Enjolras to where the two polystyrene cups sit beside each other on the worktop. “Mine’s the hazelnut one.”

 

Enjolras grins. He grabs both cups and hands one to Grantaire before sitting down at the bench where the photographer’s camera now lies dormant. “So what did you think?” he asks, then _fuck_ , he regrets it straight away. What did Grantaire think of _what_? Of the photographs? Of Enjolras the headshot model? Of Enjolras the twenty year old political science student that reminds him of the _Greek god of something or other_ with far too much on his plate and absolutely no clue where his life is headed? _Shit_. He bites his lip and stares down as his latte.

 

“I think this could work,” Grantaire says simply, and when Enjolras looks up he holds his gaze, his eyes alight with anticipation. For a second he wonders what Grantaire is referring to, then berates himself inwardly for his fucked-up, misplaced optimism. _You’d better calm down right now_ , his subconscious threatens. _Don’t get your hopes up. This one is definitely straight._ Enjolras has had bad experiences in the past with this kind of thing and at this point he reckons neither his heart nor his sanity can take another blow from a boy who’s _really really sorry but we’re different and I don’t feel like that about you and this just isn’t going to work_. But then Grantaire speaks again, and Enjolras doesn’t know whether to feel elated or just twice as baffled as before. “Hey, I still owe you for being late earlier. Plus, I owe you for doing this in the first place. I know it’s a little out of your comfort zone.”

 

Enjolras forces himself to smile. “Don’t worry about it. If it helps me get my first at the end of the year then I’m all for it.”

 

“Good.” Grantaire visibly hesitates. “Let me buy you a drink. For the rudeness of my behaviour this morning. Please.”

 

This time Enjolras’ smile is genuine. “Sure. Hey, tomorrow night is student night at the Musain, do you know it? It’s a pub in the middle of town, about ten minutes away from campus.”

 

Grantaire’s eyes light up. “Yeah, I know it! My friend took me there during my first week at uni.” He shakes his head as though recalling some God-awful war flashback. “There were jagerbombs. Lots of them. Three for £5 just shouldn’t be allowed. It wasn’t pretty.”

 

“We’ve all been there,” laughs Enjolras. “It’s cool, we’ll go easy on the jagerbombs. Although I can’t make any promises on behalf of my housemates. They’ll probably be there too, if that’s okay. You can’t keep them away on Wednesdays.”

 

“No way, the more the merrier. I’ll bring Eponine, make it a real party.”

 

Enjolras feels his heart sink. French and pretentious again, but definitely a girl’s name. “Eponine?” he asks, fairly confident he already knows what’s coming.

 

“Yeah, she lives next door to me in halls.”

 

“Ah,” Enjolras says with a nod, resting his chin in his hand on the bench. Then his curiosity gets the better of him, and he needs clarification. “Girlfriend?”

 

And Grantaire laughs, a surprised but genuine chortle, and shakes his head. “Absolutely no way. I love the girl, but not like that.” He smiles and shrugs, then his gaze drifts away from Enjolras. “Definitely not like that,” he adds, eyes on the huge window opposite the bench.

 

Enjolras prefers not to dwell on the absolute sheer fucking _jubilation_ he feels in response to this news, so he just nods and smiles a nice, easy and ultimately _subdued_ smile. “Sounds good,” he murmurs, and it’s now that he realises he’s smiling so big that you can actually _hear_ his smile in his voice. “So tomorrow night it is?”

 

“Absolutely,” Grantaire agrees, fishing his battered grey BlackBerry out of his pocket. “Here, put your number in. I’ll text you about times and whatnot.”

 

Enjolras takes the phone and bites back his grin as he punches in his number, recalling it from memory, then hands it back. Then they collect their belongings, Enjolras teasing Grantaire about his obvious status as an alcoholic lightweight and Grantaire viciously threatening him back with jagerbombs and black Sambuca and God knows what else, and head back downstairs and outside of the building.

 

“Thanks again for today, Enjolras,” Grantaire repeats for probably the hundredth time, but he still sounds sincere.

 

“No problem. Hey, what do you know?” says Enjolras, shouldering his rucksack once more. “I actually kind of had fun. Is that weird?”

 

“Haha, you just wait. This is only the beginning.” And Grantaire laughs as he starts to walk away. “I’ll see you tomorrow night?”

 

“Of course. See you, Grantaire.”

 

Enjolras turns to leave, but after a few seconds he finds himself turning back in the opposite direction. He watches as Grantaire drags a hand through his curls, smile still fixed on his face. Enjolras sighs. _Tomorrow night_. He can feel it happening again. _Shit._


End file.
